Killed in Action
by GuitarGirl97
Summary: Captain William E. Russell, killed in action.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** **I am not KM Peyton. If I were, I would not be writing this fic, as will hopefully become obvious. The RFC song is also not mine.**

 **Author Note:** **I'm not abandoning my ongoing fic 'Flambards in War'- I just haven't updated in a while, due to hideous exams that have been dominating my time lately. Updates should begin again soon.**

 **This short fic is something I have debated writing and putting on fanfiction for a long time. I haven't written it for the reasons I normally write fanfiction- I actually cried whilst writing this. But I have felt, ever since I read the Flambards series for the first time, that William's death deserved some real emphasis and exploration. I know the author wanted to return the focus of the story to Christina and Flambards and horses, but I have always felt that William's character was dropped very quickly.**

 **Other readers might disagree. I'm hopelessly biased, as William Russell is probably my favourite male character of all time.**

 **I hope that if you do read this, you don't hate me for writing something sad. :(**

 _ **A poor aviator lay dying, at the end of a bright summer's day.  
His comrades had gathered about him, to carry his fragments away.**_

When William Russell landed an aeroplane for the last time, it didn't truly occur to him that he had savoured his last taste of the freedom of the sky; that he had felt his last shattering abandon from the Earth, that never again would his stomach swing with the satisfaction of coaxing some old crate up into the air. Of course these days it wasn't old crates- it was military aeroplanes, death on wings. Death for the Hun whose dugouts could be photographed from the air and then shelled for days on end. Death for the gunners whose monstrous artillery cannons were targets for the simple philosophy 'kill or be killed'. Death for the pilot- Hun or British.

But none of that occurred to William when he landed on that summers afternoon. His mind was far too consumed with other thoughts, as he somehow managed to crawl and tumble out of the cockpit, collapsing onto the grass and immediately looking up, up at the endless blue of the summer sky, wondering how such a thing could continue to look so normal when nothing else did. Nature didn't even bat an eyelid to the continued ferocity of man, didn't shudder or flinch away at the never ending blood lust. But those thoughts were too big, too horrific, too _real_ for William to accept at that moment, lying on the grass under the summer sky.

He felt sick. Dizzy, too; unable to think coherently or to fully register the pain that was tearing his chest apart. The deafening silence in his ears was being slowly pierced by distant sounds- a commotion, voices shouting, his friends yelling his name and their footsteps coming fast and close...gunfire echoing on as it always did in the not so far off distance...they were getting closer now. Running to get him- to carry away the corpse.

He feverishly clutched at his chest, feeling the strange damp of blood soaking through his khaki, wishing only that it could all be over. That he could cease to be sprawled in the grass in the warm summer sun, tainted by gunfire.

He looked at the blue of the sky. So blue, it almost hurt to look- so open he could cry with the need to be up there again, surrounded by the endlessness of it, swooping and soaring in some agile little machine he had mended and brought back to life. He could fix anything, make even the most decrepit old things stuttered with bullets flyable again. The thing was, he wasn't so immortal.

This time it was him who was peppered and he was helpless. Broken for good.

"Oh God, Will, Captain Russell, oh dear God-"

One of the boys had reached him where he was sprawled in the field beside the smouldering wreckage of his plane. The poor lad dithered helplessly, tears pricking his eyes, before falling to his knees beside William and scooping his head into his lap. William appreciated the gesture, even if he couldn't remember the boys name. He was 18- William did know that. He had been like that once, uncorrupted and innocent. Four years felt like a lifetime.

The others made it over and someone slipped a morphine tablet under William's tongue; someone else wiped the blood splatters from his face, another was debating whether they should fetch a stretcher. Leave me, William thought irritably, get on with fixing the machine- she can be mended. Don't waste your time on me.

The boy was talking to him, the words just noise in his muffled ears, but a comfort nonetheless. It made William wish he had been able to do that for Sandy and Mr Dermot; to soothe them, to simply exist beside them until they were gone. He had never been given the chance to say goodbye- just to stand silently in the aftermath and reel with the inability to comprehend that they no longer existed. That they were gone.

The pain in his chest was gone- oh, blessed morphine- but still William could feel the broken parts of him as he breathed. It was just like flying- you always knew when the engine needed an overhaul, or warp wires tightening, or new piston rings. His fingers moved to the tattered remains of his chest and he felt the mess left by the bullets with a shudder, not of revulsion, but of realisation. War was messy. Why did it take dying to realise that?

His eyes were drawn to the sky again, so blue, gazing down upon him and the burning wreckage, nestled in the grass together. I could be at Flambards, or Kingston, or anywhere in England, on a lazy summer day with no cares at all- he stopped mid thought, suddenly realising that for him, there had never been a time with no cares. He had never existed without something to fret over. How pointless that all was now.

As Mr Dermot would say, what wasted potential.

He felt his limbs suddenly fall heavy and detached from his body, as if he were floating- somewhere through the thick fog of confusion, the RFC lad was saying something, urgently-

"Captain? Captain, is there- oh God... is there anything you want me to- to say to your family?"

Mark wouldn't care. Father was dead. Christina... William tried to say her name, but he was already drifting and his lips wouldn't oblige him anymore; he could not say it. He just wanted to lay back against the hot grass and close his eyes, to forget, to lose it all, the regret and the bitterness, to sink back into the darkness and never come back-

"William?"

Out of nowhere her voice was calling to him, and suddenly he could see her standing there in the grass, her smile blossoming onto her face and her eyes soft with love. She held out a hand to him, beckoning him, but something like realisation dawned on her face and she retracted it, instead caressing his cheek softly. He could feel it- the warm, soft skin, so tender with love he could weep. He didn't want to lose her but he knew that she couldn't go with him.

"I love you." he told her, this smiling vision, and she nodded with tears escaping down her cheeks.

"I know. And I love you." she seemed to shine, and glow with warmth.

William no longer saw the sky- he saw her. A twelve year old girl with bewildered eyes...a vision of beauty in a rose pink dress...a whisper of a name and breathless kisses...a laugh and tears and waving as the plane taxied off-

He smiled. There was nothing else- no mess or pain or anger. Just her. Only her.

The RFC lad was not ashamed when tears dripped down his face and onto the face of his Captain, whose eyelids he closed with a gentle tremor in his hands. The older men stood a few metres back from the wreckage, silent- for there was nothing to be said.

 _ **Oh, had I the wings of a little dove,**_ __ _ **far a-way, far a-way would I fly,  
Straight to the arms of my true-love,**_ __ _ **and there would I lay me and die.**_

 _ **So hold all your glasses steady, and let's drink a toast to the sky,  
For here's to the dead already, and here's to the next man to die.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** **I am not KM Peyton.**

 _ **He's never coming home**_

He's never coming home.

A moment of anticipation, of letters being opened and messages read, dissolves into confusion and stumbling and pain. A moment of casual happiness implodes and shatters life itself, or at least it feels that way, taking with it all hopes and dreams and wishes for the future. All gone in a moment, as if they were nothing.

He's never coming home.

There is a need to prove this smug, silent telegram wrong- a need which turns shaking fingers into frenzied machines, the paper refusing to change, refusing to read differently, even when forced back into the envelope and ripped out again. A tangled, sobbing mantra echoes out into the darkness, starting as barely a whisper but building to trembling, shattering yells and cries.

No, no no-!

The sound shatters the silence- a flurry of frantic footsteps and a horrified scream announces the arrival of another person into this hideous mix, but still does not break through the walls that seem to have gone up, leaving nothing but that awful telegram and the sensation of being ripped apart. Even when arms clutch and rock, and words come, soothing and sobbing, nothing can penetrate this cruel burst of reality. Eyes close to try and forget that smudged font, though it is pointless, for those cold cut words are now emblazoned, branded, into heart and soul. They wait behind closed lids.

In the dark, there is a flash, a moment where the emptiness lights up with flashes of hopes, dreams and maybes. But they falter. They are extinguished. All gone, all torn, all battered and bloodied and murdered.

He's never coming home. Not ever. Not even in a coffin, for the war torn soil of France has already claimed him.

He'll never smile again. Never laugh. Never kiss. Those sparkling eyes, that used to dance with joy and intelligence and simple beauty, are dead and cold. Those skilled hands are lifeless and bloody. That brilliant mind is gone.

The world itself collapses then, and falls apart, leaving only the darkness and that horrific truth and that screaming agony that comes with helplessness and grief.

He's never coming home. She'll never see him again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** **I am not KM Peyton.**

 _ **The Best and the Worst**_

She never would have guessed that her twelve year old self would meet a thirteen year old boy, smothered by a fireguard and blankets and the dominance of his father and brother. His head and ceiling were swarming with wiry flying machines that baffled her. She didn't know, on that first awkward and tentative meeting, when she crept into the room and saw dark hair and dark eyes peeking at her against the stark white of a pillow, that one day he would be her everything, and the cause of her fall into nothing.

Back then, in those innocent days of childhood, he had just been a boy, who scowled a lot, and used big words and dreamt of things her head couldn't even comprehend. A boy who, whilst being scornful and too clever too often, seemed to be the only one who made any sense to her topsy-turvy world. It was hardly a likely friendship- he so full of dreams of radicalism and knowledge that surpassed men thrice his age and she so naive and willing to fall into the archaic world he despised.

But there was something they shared, at that age, that feeling of being out of place. She did not know, before meeting that boy, how very important it was to know that you are not alone.

She wouldn't have thought that the dark eyed boy with the wild dreams could ever be her best friend, the most exciting secret, the biggest mystery, even the kindest voice. He was the only one who cared to listen and she was the only one who didn't try to change him. But even when they were inseparable, he could still surprise her. She had never imagined that her first experience of love would be the agony of being without him, waiting on a scrawled note, knowing the awful pain of realisation that he was no longer just a boy- he was a man. A man whose dark eyes were now the most beautiful things she had ever seen, whose soft hand was the warmest greeting she could ever wish for.

She had always known she would someday fall in love- all girls know it, or rather they hope for it. But she hadn't thought it would be William for whom she fell so utterly. William with all his madness, and his tempers, his shocking intelligence and all his kindness and compassion.

Her first kiss was at an airfield, tasting of soap and engine oil- _but she had never thought that his lips could be so soft, or so warm._

Her first moment of true terror was watching him soar through the open blue, biting down hard on her lip and tasting blood- _she could never have known he would inspire such fear in her._

Her first feeling of desire was on a summers night outside the plane sheds, gazing into his eyes and wondering if it would really be so awful to abandon propriety to be in his arms- _who would have thought that she could ever feel such a burning need for another human being?_

When the telegram came, Christina knew that their love had come full circle. She hadn't ever guessed it, but now she had to accept it- that William was the best and the worst thing to ever happen to her. She would never feel love like that again.

The pain of the grief was awful. She found that she could not bring herself to think or act or even breathe without her mind giving in to the horror of what had happened, what she had _lost._ But had Christina had known what agony was to come when she, at twelve, had looked into William's thirteen year old eyes, she would not have turned away.

The happiness he had given her, no matter how short lived, was everything to her.

Christina had never guessed that her child, her daughter Isobel, would never meet her father. But Isobel would have her mother, a mother who had known the brilliance and the love of William Russell. Isobel Russell would know her father through his model aeroplanes, through his books and his notes, through photographs and most of all through the love he had given to her mother, the love which would be passed on to her.

Christina had not known that love was immortal. But standing in a small dusty room, cradling her child and reaching up to lightly touch one of the delicate model aeroplanes that seemed to keep guard over them both, the proof was inescapable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** **I am not KM Peyton.**

 _ **Legacy**_

It was almost three in the afternoon on a warm summers day, the sun still dominating the flawless blue of the skies and the surrounding hills and trees still lush and green with summer vitality. Flambards watched proudly over her land and her fields and her horses, the farm bustling with workers and the stables busy- of course, the hectic rush of the place was added to by the fact that the mistress of the place, Mrs Christina Russell, was running around in a complete panic.

"Isobel?" she called, becoming hot and irate in the heat, irritably pushing her hair back behind her ears as it came tumbling out of her messy bun. "Isobel!"

"She's at Dermot's." Came the easy reply of a tall, well built young man of eighteen, whose appearance was still so shockingly like his father's that Christina still did a double take every time she came running into him unexpectedly.

"Tizzy!" she gasped. "I mean, Tom! You know that she wasn't supposed to go over there today! She has to get ready for the ball!"

Tizzy grinned easily, clearly not caring at all for whether Isobel would have time to do her hair or not. Tonight was to be his first time at the Ball as a real young gentleman, as opposed to a gangly teenager- hence Christina's concern to drop the childish nickname and try to persuade him to act with a little more grace and sophistication. She gave an irritated sigh and reached out to brush a little straw from his shoulder, but he shrugged her off with a laugh, continuing to pat the horse, Worm, who was also stuck with an unfortunate nickname. He was the laughing stock of the hunt.

"You know there's no stopping her when she gets an idea into her head. She's a real Russell- stubborn." He grinned. "And anyway, she loves it there. Why shouldn't she spend her time there?"

"Don't be childish, Tizzy. And shouldn't you be getting ready yourself? Your boots are filthy. Have you even asked one of the maids to press your jacket?" she asked sceptically, making him grimace at the prospect of dressing up.

"It's a ridiculous exercise. No one cares about the Hunt Ball!" he argued.

"That's not true. I care. So does your father." Christina retorted. "Tradition is important, Tizzy. It's something you have to understand, that in a community like ours-"

"Which is outdated and boring." He just about managed not to yawn and Christina glared at him. "I know it's important to you and to Dad. But I'd much prefer a party like those in London, without all the old farmers. And Isobel hates hunting, so why does she want to go to a Hunt Ball?"

At that point, a motor car came screeching to a halt at the courtyard gate, and out hopped a messy, dishevelled Isobel. Her face was alight with a sort of happiness Christina had only ever seen in the eyes of one other person- aeronautical bliss, Sandy had laughingly called it in the Elm Park days. It was something she had associated with William, but now with Isobel.

Isobel was twelve and it was clear to Christina that when she was older she was going to be a true beauty- only right now, she far preferred running around in trousers, getting oily and dirty and avoiding all girly activities if possible. She had never taken to horse riding, finding it boring and loathing the hunt with a passion, far preferring to spend all her days down at Dermot's, which had become a haven for young men interested in mechanics and engines in recent years. Christina had invested some money into the place a few years ago, allowing for an airfield to be built for recreational purposes- the pilots, mechanics and young enthusiasts made for an exciting crowd for Isobel to immerse herself in.

Isobel had always been intelligent, loving her lessons and reading and arguing with Mark about having to go riding. But Christina knew that her daughters real passion for engines and machines had only come about a few years ago, when Tizzy had broken one of the model aeroplanes that hung from her bedroom ceiling (for she had William's old room). Christina had come running, terrified by the sound of her daughter and her nephew screaming at each other, to find Isobel in hysterical tears that the model Bleriot had been crumpled.

"It's not fair!" she had raged. "If I so much as touch one of those horrible old fox heads Tizzy kills me! But his father is still alive! He doesn't need a stuffed animal to remember him by! But I don't have my father, and now one of the things I have of him has been broken and it can't be fixed!"

"Isobel, darling, of course it can be fixed!" Christina had exclaimed, horrified by the tears and the fury. "You can fix it."

"But I'll ruin it! I don't know how!" she wept.

"Then you can learn. I'll find your fathers old books and his notes, and you can teach yourself from them how to fix the aeroplane. Perhaps you can even make some of your own." Christina told her with a smile, and Isobel looked at her in bewildered astonishment.

"My father's old books? Notes?" she repeated in a dazed voice, sounding far older than her nine years. "And photographs too?"

"Oh, yes. And newspaper clippings." Christina felt close to tears herself, just looking at the expression on Isobel's face.

Christina had found the old books and diaries and notes and given them to Isobel- within the week, the model Bleriot was fixed and there were several new aeroplanes to the air-born collection hanging from the ceiling. She devoured the books about aerodynamics and engineering, taking to talking about it at the dinner table and making Mark comment on the fact he hadn't been forced to listen to 'potty plane nonsense' for many, many years. When Isobel began to refuse to help out in the stables and go riding, in favour of climbing under the motor car to tinker with the engine, Christina found herself in a difficult argument with Mark as to whether Isobel's interest should be stopped.

"She's only so interested in the damn things because she fancies herself similar to the father she never met!" Mark raged, his temper having been sparked by the sight of Isobel wearing Tizzy's old clothes as 'overalls'. "She's a girl, Christina- she shouldn't be messing around with engines! I can't remember the last time I saw her on a horse. The Russell's are riders, not bloody mechanics!"

Now, Christina gave a sigh as Isobel came charging into the courtyard, barrelling into Tizzy and laughing as he scooped her up into a messy hug. She knew she had always hoped that Isobel would follow in her footsteps- love horses as she did, love riding and the hunt and managing Flambards as she did. But she could see, quite clearly, that her hopes were pointless. Isobel was far too like her father- and seeing her now, dark eyes sparkling as his had, face covered in oil and shining with aeronautical bliss just as his had, Christina would not change that for the world.

"Hello, Mother." Isobel turned around and grinned, pushing her black hair back over her shoulder and smearing the grime across her face. She was in massively oversized overalls and her riding boots, which were filthy and likely ruined with all the oil that was splattered over them.

"Isobel, you're filthy." Christina said with a smile that could not be stopped- she had meant to sound firm but it was impossible. "You did remember that tonight is the Hunt Ball?"

"Ugh, how could I forget." She pulled a face, making Tizzy laugh. "I suppose you'll want me to wash my face and dress up in some ridiculous outfit Aunt Grace has made."

"Yes. So come along- I'll help you."

Christina loved brushing Isobel's hair- it reminded her of when Mary had done it for her before the Hunt Ball, when she was seventeen, unaware that she would elope from the Ball that very night with William, laughing in the darkness as the car raced Mark on Woodpigeon. This was to be Isobel's first Hunt Ball and Christina was full of excitement for her. She was so lost in nostalgia and that warm, faraway day dream sensation that it took a few seconds for her to realise that Isobel had spoken.

"What was that, Isobel?"

"I asked why I have to go to the Hunt Ball. I hate the hunt, and riding, and all the stupid farmers who think it's fun to chase a poor fox around the countryside so that a pack of dogs can rip it to shreds." She pouted miserably, slamming her fists down onto the dresser.

"Isobel, please don't make such a fuss darling." Christina frowned, seeing her daughters scowl in the mirror and wondering for a moment how such a young girl could manage a scowl like that. But then, both Mark and William had been capable of ferocious tempers from a very young age- perhaps it was another Russell trait. "We'll all be together as a family- it will be fun, I'm sure! Please don't argue with Mark about it when we go downstairs."

"Yes that sounds about right; I'll just go along with whatever he says, agree that horses and hunting and farming are the best pursuits in the world." Isobel pouted and Christina gasped to hear the disrespectful tone. "But it's true Mother! Because _Mark_ likes horses, we all have to like horses!"

"No you don't." Christina replied calmly, beginning to plait Isobel's long, thick, raven black hair that shone just as prettily as her eyes. "You can like and dislike whatever you choose."

"Then why can't I choose to not go to the Hunt Ball?" she demanded, her tone confident, thinking she had found the flaw in her mother's argument.

Christina simply laughed, and got up to take the dress Aunt Grace had made from the bed, smoothing out the dark blue material and remembering smoothing out the material of her own dress, the dress the colour of blossoming pink roses- the eloping dress. The material was soft and fine- good quality, as everything made by Aunt Grace was. Isobel turned round on the chair and scowled at the dress, not necessarily hating it, but rather the fact that wearing it would mean going to the ball.

"You can't miss the Hunt Ball, Isobel, because it has nothing to do with hunting. Or horses. As you well know." She added in a stern voice, and Isobel shook her head stubbornly. "You have to go because it is important to me and I want you to be there."

Isobel muttered something in a begrudging tone and Christina laughed again.

"I can't hear you when you grumble and groan so." She smiled, holding the dress out and motioning for Isobel to come over to her. She did so with a face like thunder.

"I said, I'll bet my father hated the Hunt Ball and decided not to go." She said, the words a little muffled as the dress went over her head.

"He did have some rather... firm opinions regarding the ball, it must be said." Christina agreed in a soft voice, fastening the buttons and bringing Isobel to the mirror so that she could see herself as Christina began to smooth out the layers and fix her hair properly. Isobel's scorn had dulled just a little as she stared at her own reflection, her slight joy at how the dark dress contrasted her pale skin given away in the sparkle of her near black eyes. "But he still went. In fact, he came all the way back from Farnborough just to attend the Hunt Ball."

Isobel, who knew that Farnborough was practically an aeronautical paradise, gaped at her mother.

"Why did he do that?" she asked in astonishment, and Christina placed her hands on Isobel's shoulders and smiled softly.

"He came back to take _me_ to the ball." She said, in a warm, soft voice that Isobel instantly detected- it was the voice that her mother always used when she spoke about William, Isobel's father, whether that was just mentioning his name in passing conversation- not that it happened often- or if she was telling Isobel a particular story or memory, with the big red photo album spread over her lap. "And if he hadn't come back for that ball, then things would have ended very differently. We ran away from that ball together, Isobel- I was only seventeen. Away into the night, into the world with all the scary thoughts of the future and the war. I was terrified; terrified of aeroplanes and everything that might happen to us."

Isobel had heard the story before- of her parents running away into the night, like a fairytale. But never had her mother mentioned the terror. She almost laughed when her mother said she had been scared of aeroplanes, because they certainly weren't scary, but the idea of stepping out into the unknown with a war looming made Isobel shudder. For all her moaning and complaining, she couldn't imagine just suddenly leaving Flambards.

"If you were so scared, then why did you go?" she asked, enthralled.

"Because I was in love. I loved William- your father. And despite the fact he didn't need me at all, he loved me." Christina felt silly little tears spring up into her eyes, tears of happiness, and she could see from Isobel's reflection in the mirror that she was watching intently. "I won't say that he would want you to go, because the truth is that if William were here, we wouldn't even be in Flambards and going to Hunt Balls. But I would like you to go Isobel, because the Hunt Ball is an important part of my life and I would like to share that with you."

There was a pause, where mother and daughters eyes met in the mirror. Then, slowly, Isobel nodded.

"Alright. I'll go to the Hunt Ball and I won't argue, or complain." She said. "I'll represent the sane part of society- those who understand that hunting is a silly pastime and that we really ought to be more interested in machines."

"Thank you." Christina laughed and Isobel smiled, which mirrored her mother's exactly. "You are so very like your father. He was utterly brilliant, and kind, and so compassionate- he truly cared for the wellbeing of others. He certainly didn't believe in the life I lead now- he thought we should work hard for things, earn them, not inherit them. He truly was the most amazing man I have ever known and you are just like him Isobel."

Isobel looked up towards the model flying machines, where they gently bobbed and span in the slight draught coming from the door that was slightly ajar. She suddenly looked sad, and she reached up to touch the wiry model with one finger, staring thoughtfully at it.

"I wish I had known him." She said, so softly that Christina wondered if Isobel had not truly meant to say it aloud. "I have his models, I have his books, I have pictures and words and your stories but- but it's not the same, is it? He never even met me- he didn't even know I existed."

Christina slipped her rings- her engagement and wedding rings- off of her finger and held them out to Isobel, who took them gently and found her mother's eyes in the mirror again.

"Wear them tonight- if they're too big, put them on a chain and wear them around your neck." Christina said softly, and Isobel nodded. "I wish you had known him too, Isobel. But one thing I can be certain of is this- he would have been so very proud of you. He would have loved to teach you all about engines, to take you up in an aeroplane, to experience the changing world with you- in fact, he probably would have argued with me to name you Emma!" Christina exclaimed, and Isobel laughed, knowing that Emma was the name of his first machine. "But there was far more to William than aeroplanes, just as there is far more to you than being his legacy. And that is why I want you to do whatever you choose Isobel- I want you to explore, to discover, and find yourself. And once you have, you are free to be that person and I will help and support you in whatever way I can. That is what your father would have done, but he isn't here to do that, so you will have to trust in me to give you his love and support as well as my own."

Isobel was silent for a moment, staring down at the rings in her outstretched palm, with stones the colour of the sky.

"You really mean that, don't you?" she said, after a pause, and Christina nodded.

"Of course I do." She replied.

And Isobel turned and flung her arms around her mother, burying her face against her, inhaling that warm and comforting scent of childhood and safety and _home_.

Christina held her daughter close and looked up to the aeroplane models, smiling. William would have been proud- proud of them both.

It was when they stood watching Tizzy whirl a giggling Isobel round and round the ballroom that Mark asked Christina where her rings were- he had taken her hand, and had felt the absence of the cold metal that was always present on her finger.

"Can't you guess?" she replied with a smile, looking out at her daughter, her wonderful daughter, whirling and spinning and laughing until tears ran down her cheeks.

It was fitting in a way that words could not hope to express, so Christina did not try to. She simply smiled at her husband and looked out to her daughter, dancing on that very same floor she had danced upon.

She watched as the ghosts of the girl in the rose pink dress and the boy with the dark eyes and the locked knee danced together, their image blurring with that of her daughter and her nephew. The ghosts faded, leaving only reality, and Christina pressed her fingers to her heart. There was no pain, or grief anymore- only love. Christina laughed a little as she wiped her tears away. Mark saw and peered at her, concerned, but she shook her head at him.

"Let's dance, please-"

The ghost of William in Christina's mind seemed to smile. No pain. No grief. Only love. A beautiful, tear stained, testing love, of the most perfect kind. Isobel was not his legacy, but theirs.

A legacy of love.


End file.
